


what's there to do (couldn't even tell you)

by emlof



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, post-MAG 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emlof/pseuds/emlof
Summary: “Martin,” he asks, tentative, “do you know how to ride a bike?”“Mm, no,” Martin says absently from where he’s doing the dishes. “Never really got around to it. Why?”“Oh, just wondering,” Jon says, unsure why he feels so relieved. “Er. I don’t, either.”--Jon teaches himself to ride a bicycle.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims - Background, Past Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 26
Kudos: 134





	what's there to do (couldn't even tell you)

There’s a bike leaning against the shed, at the safehouse. 

Jon can see it from his place at the kitchen table, tries so hard to avoid looking at it that soon it’s the _only_ thing he can see. 

“Martin,” he asks, tentative, “do you know how to ride a bike?” 

“Mm, no,” Martin says absently from where he’s doing the dishes. “Never really got around to it. Why?” 

“Oh, just wondering,” Jon says, unsure why he feels so relieved. “Er. I don’t, either.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. He’s looking at Jon now, the beginning of a frown on his face, like he’s thinking of asking a question Jon isn’t sure he’ll be able to answer. 

But the moment passes. “Alright, then,” Martin says, turning back to the dishes. “Help me dry?”

* * *

“What do you mean you don’t know how?” Tim asks, incredulous. He’s completely lost whatever focus he had, now, not even pretending to read the study on the desk in front of him. 

“Do you have to be _quite_ so loud?” Jon hisses, eyes darting nervously around the library. There aren’t many other researchers here, not this late, but Jon can see a few heads turning their way, irritated. 

Tim, of course, is unbothered, just waves cheerily and mouths a shameless “sorry” to anyone who might be glaring at them. Jon sighs, exasperated.

It’s too bad that Tim’s gotten used to him, Jon thinks absently – he’s sure his scolding used to hold more heat, at least enough to make him back off. But now Tim is just looking at him, expectant and completely unashamed.

“And what I _mean_ is that I never learned. There wasn’t—” he cuts himself off before he says more than he’s willing to share. “It’s not as if my grandmother could have taught me. By the time I realized I ought to know – well, it’s a bit late now, don’t you think?”

“Never,” Tim says fiercely. There’s a conviction in his eyes that Jon hadn’t expected, when they’d started down this unexpected conversational path. “It’s never too late. It’s a critical skill, Jon, you’ve got to learn!” 

Jon isn’t sure he likes the way Tim is looking at him, like he’s—a project, or something. “Tim, wait, whatever you’re thinking—"

“There’s nothing for it – I’ll just have to teach you!” Tim says, triumphant. He looks excited about it. Jon wishes he could feel the same. 

Instead, there’s something like abject horror blooming in his chest. He can’t imagine anything worse than spending an afternoon falling on his face in front of Tim — bright, handsome, friendly Tim, who only ever teases him good-naturedly, who he can’t stand the thought of embarrassing himself in front of.

Because Jon knows what he’s like when he’s embarrassed. He’s not an easy person to get along with to begin with, but make him uncomfortable and all his defenses come up; he’s prickly, irritable, _mean_ —he knows this about himself, by now, and it’s not something he’s keen on sharing with Tim, not now.

(The rational part of his brain tells him Tim already almost certainly knows this about him, has seen him like that on too-late nights when they’re both exhausted but unwilling to give up on whatever project has them so captivated, but—he pushes it aside.)

Tim, oblivious time Jon’s sudden panic, presses on. “This weekend. What are you doing?” 

“Sorry, I’m—" Jon struggles to come up with some pressing commitment, comes up blank. “I’ve got— plans.” 

Not his most convincing delivery. Tim snorts, but doesn’t press him on it. 

“Right — well, another time then.”

* * *

“I’m going—out,” Jon says the next morning, willing his voice to stay casual. 

Martin barely looks up from his spot by the fire – he’s been steadily working his way through Daisy’s bookshelves, wrapped always in the thick woolen blanket he’s claimed as his own. The cabin seems tailor-made for him, all rustic charm and unexpected hominess – he’s happy here, Jon thinks, smiling softly. 

It’s still new, that they have this, that he can stand in the doorway and just—look. 

“Bring a jacket,” Martin hums absently, fully absorbed and oblivious to Jon’s eyes on him. “It looked like rain, this morning.” 

Jon laughs through the clenching in his chest – he’s so _Martin,_ even absentmindedly. “Alright. Be seeing you, then.” 

“Right,” Martin says, then— “Oh, Jon?”

Jon turns back, one hand on the door to see Martin looking at him intently. “Yes?”

“Love you,” Martin says, smiling shyly. 

And this, too, is new – not the way Jon’s breath catches in his chest, although it does, or the way his heart suddenly flips over itself, but the way he lets himself smile uncertainly in return, the way he lets his eyes rest on Martin as he says, “you, too,” before turning to walk out the door.

* * *

The bike has not, unfortunately, been stolen in the dead of night, which means that it’s still there, leaned against the shed where it seems to stare accusingly at Jon. 

He stares back. 

He can’t say why he’s doing this, just that, ever since noticing it earlier, he’s been unable to stop thinking about it.

Finally, he approaches it – slowly, like it might be a wild animal. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. The tires seem – fine? Not noticeably flat, at least, and there’s some rust on the chain but not enough, he thinks, to make it ridable. As if he knows. 

It seems to be the right size, at least, when he swings one leg over – the thought comes to him, unbidden, that he ought to be on tip-toes when he sits. 

He scoots back onto the seat. His toes just barely reach the ground, which feels – unstable. Still, he shuffles his way slowly forward, down the long driveway. It feels like he’s forgetting something, but he can’t think of what it might be, so he just keeps shuffling forward. A pedal hits him in the ankle; it’s unexpectedly painful. He mutters a curse under his breath, grateful there’s no one around to see him but the cows.

Their first night here, he and Martin had lain awake for a long time, listening for a car on the road, pulling up the driveway, for the door to burst open – the silence had been unsettling, then. Now, Jon is just thankful that he can be confident there won’t be any vehicles to menace him as he takes to the roads. 

At the end of the driveway the road slopes gently down, a long, straight shot that flattens out gradually. This, Jon thinks, is where he’ll start – he can get the sense of just gliding, first, before trying to bother with any pedaling. 

The hill seems steeper than he remembered. 

He could, if he wanted to, just turn around. Could walk back up the driveway, lean the bike back up against the shed and go for a walk, the way he’d told Martin he would. 

He doesn’t want to. 

“No time like the present, I suppose,” he mutters to himself, and instantly feels foolish for it. 

The road looms ahead. He puts one unsteady foot on a pedal, takes a deep breath, and kicks off with the other. 

There’s a moment where he’s just gliding forward, where he holds his balance. But then he realizes that his foot is still dangling awkwardly in the air, and he tries to put it on the other pedal but can’t seem to find it, so he looks down and suddenly any semblance of balance he’d had is gone and the handlebars wobble menacingly and he realizes he doesn’t know how to _stop_ —

He looks back up just in time for everything to go sideways.

His head bounces painfully off the road – ah, he thinks, no helmet, he _had_ been forgetting something, _stupid_ – and he lays on the ground, winded, for a moment, staring up at the sky and waiting for his ears to stop ringing, and for the pricking sensation behind his eyes to fade.

Martin had been wrong – it doesn’t look like rain at all. The sky above is blue, crystal-clear. It must be some of the best weather they’ve had in days.

* * *

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” Tim says, looking at his phone as he comes back from the shower. Jon is still half-asleep, just grumbles something at him and covers his eyes as Tim lifts the shades. 

He can feel the bed dip as Tim sits back down next to him and Jon curls unthinkingly towards him. Tim laughs, runs a hand fondly through Jon’s hair. 

“You know what I think we should do, on this beautiful day?” Tim sounds excited, enough so that Jon blearily opens his eyes. As expected, Tim is beaming down at him, altogether too energetic for the time of day. 

“What’s that?” he tries to ask, although it comes out as more of a wordless grumble. Tim seems to get the message.

“I think we ought to go for a ride.” 

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, as if Tim might go away if he can’t see him. “Tim, you know I can’t—"

“That’s why you’ll just have to let me teach you,” Tim says, grinning. “It’s a perfect day for a ride, which means it’s a perfect day to learn, too.” 

They’ve been at this long enough that he knows Tim won’t think less of him, that, if Jon would just let him – if he’d just _trust_ him – he’d be a kind and patient teacher.

But it still sends a spike of panic through him, that Tim might find him wanting, somehow – might see him _not know,_ see him so plainly and completely helpless. 

He’s being ridiculous, and knows it – but that doesn’t do anything to help the way his stomach is suddenly in knots, the way he can feel his shoulders tensing. He wonders if Tim can hear the way his heart is pounding – it certainly _feels_ like it should be audible from across the room, at least. 

“Mm,” he hums, trying for casual. “It could be a good day for other things, too.” 

He wraps a hand around Tim’s wrist where it’s resting on the bed and _pulls,_ surprising Tim, who loses his balance and tumbles sideways across him, squawking with indignation. 

“Jon—"

“Come back to bed,” Jon says into his shoulder. 

Tim sighs, pretending to be put-upon. “Oh, I suppose – but only because you insist.” 

Jon snorts, wraps his arms around him just to be safe – as if he could ever keep Tim somewhere he didn’t want to be.

Tim hums, props himself up so that he can look Jon in the eye. “But don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at.” Jon kisses him before he can finish his thought. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, and Tim laughs against his mouth. 

“Of course not – I’ll make a cyclist out of you yet, Mr. Sims,” Tim grins, before dipping down to kiss him again. 

Somehow, the topic doesn’t come up for the rest of the day.

* * *

Jon gets up slowly, untangling his legs from the bike, assessing the damage. His elbow is scraped, and there’s a lump forming on his head, but nothing feels broken, at least. 

Ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. He should go back inside, let Martin fuss over him and wait for the throbbing in his ankle to subside. 

But – falling had hurt, but not as badly as he’d thought. Maybe one more time, maybe if he’s not going downhill—

He goes over it in his head, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. It was the pedaling that had thrown him off, he thinks, too much all at once. If he could just get his balance, that might work. 

He swings his leg over again, pushes himself forward with just his toes. It’s awkward: the pedals keep hitting his shins, biting into his ankles, and he can feel the ache of what’s certain to be a set of deep bruises from the repeated collisions. He can’t look anywhere but straight ahead, or else he’ll start to wobble and veer off-course. 

But – he’s not falling, either, and he can glide farther and farther with each pass, up and down the road. 

He’s glad Martin is still inside, hadn’t asked to join him on his “walk.” He wouldn’t want him to see this. Martin would be sensible, would tell him to take things slow or maybe to call it a day, would want him to come inside so he could rub ointment on Jon’s scraped elbow, slowly oozing, and ice the spot on his head that’s throbbing and promising the beginning of a headache. 

He’s glad Martin isn’t here, because he wouldn’t understand why Jon needs to _do_ this, why he won’t stop. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to, now that he’s started. 

Martin would want to know why he’s so determined to see this through, why he’s doing this even though he keeps falling, even though there’s a raw spot at the back of his ankle from the sharp metal biting into his skin there. 

Martin would want to understand, and Jon isn’t sure he’d be able to explain. How could he, when he doesn’t understand himself?

He turns the bike around and starts again.

* * *

“Why are you so determined to get out of this?” Tim asks one day, frowning at him. “I won’t make fun of you, promise.”

“I know, I just—"

He breaks off. How can he explain himself, explain that he knows Tim would never hold it against him but still he’s afraid? Afraid of not knowing, of not being able to learn, of being a _disappointment—_

Tim is still waiting for an answer, as patient as he’s ever been. 

“I don’t want to fall,” Jon finishes weakly. Unconvincing, but Tim has never pushed him, not when he wasn’t ready.

“It’s ok to fall, sometimes,” Tim says. “Everybody does. God knows I did. I’ll bring plasters.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. This is where Tim should get frustrated with him, should throw his arms up in the air with an annoyed huff, where he should just walk away – lord knows he wouldn’t be the first.

“I’m not just saying it to make you feel better, you know,” Tim says instead. “You probably will fall. But that’s alright. What’s important is that you get back up. That’s how you learn.” 

“You sound like one of Elias’ motivational speakers,” Jon says drily. Tim winces. 

“Sticks and stones, Jonathan – I’m not going to give up on this, you know. You can sling all the devastating insults you want at me, but I won’t.” 

_”Why?”_

It slips from Jon’s mouth before he can really register that he’s said it, and he freezes. “I mean—why does it matter so much to you? Why do you care so much about something so – so _stupid?_ ” 

It comes out more harshly than he’d intended, but Tim doesn’t look hurt, just faintly surprised. He doesn’t answer immediately. 

Jon is starting to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t just leave when Tim says, “I think it was just sheer stubbornness at first, you know? I really do think everyone should learn, but more than that, I wanted to prove you wrong. And it’s _fun_ —don’t make that face at me, it really is. But now – it’s because _you_ matter to me. Because I think you’d like it – I think you can do it.” 

He’s looking at Jon intently, now, with real heat in his gaze – more serious than Jon’s seen him in a long time. But then he laughs, a little, self-deprecating chuckle, and the moment is gone. 

“I guess I still want to prove you wrong, huh?” He pauses, that serious look coming back to his eyes, like he’s trying to tell Jon something without saying the words. “No, that’s not quite right. I want you to trust me – to trust that I _can_ prove you wrong. That’s all.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say, at that. It must show on his face, because Tim shakes his head, laughing. 

“Sorry – I’m not trying to make it a big deal, or anything. Just – don’t rule it out, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jon says, and he thinks he might even mean it. “Yeah, alright.” 

Tim beams at him. “Good. Great! But enough of that – let’s get going. I think you’ll recall you promised me one last night out on the town before you’re my boss, _boss._ ” 

Jon groans, rolls his eyes. 

“ _Last_ night – that makes it sound like there have been nights before. I’ll thank you to not go giving the others ideas,” he gripes, but he gets his coat all the same.

* * *

It’s harder, once he tries to bring the pedals back into the equation. Something about getting his foot on, he always has to look down but that makes him wobbly—

He can only go a few feet without stopping, without having to put his feet down before he falls. There are a few times he misjudges, misses the timing, goes down again – but at least now he’s learned to bring an arm up to keep his head off the ground, and he gets better at falling into the grass. 

The sun is high above him by the time he feels something click, gets his foot on the pedal without looking. He still doesn’t make it very far, still comes to an unsteady halt after a few seconds, but—

It’s working, now, or it could work. 

Finally, _finally_ he doesn’t feel like he’s moments from falling, he resists the urge to put his feet down and keeps pushing, keeps pedaling, keeps going forward. 

Finally, he admits to himself why he’s doing this at all; finally, he lets himself think of Tim. 

Tim, sneaking up on him in the library, scooting past and pressing just a bit too close, Tim, propped up in bed and grinning at him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, recording silly fake statements, knowing Jon would yell at him for it later but only ever halfheartedly. 

Tim, reaching out, hoping for support, for help, for understanding, and finding nothing. 

Tim, looking at him with something hard in his eyes, doubting, resenting, _hating_ —

He’s riding, now, _really_ riding, and he could laugh, wants to yell for someone who’s not there to _look at him now,_ but there’s only the cows and the hills and instead he has to slow to a stop when his vision gets so blurry that he can’t see the road anymore.

* * *

He rides for a long time, after that. He can’t turn, or come to a particularly graceful stop, but his feet find the pedals almost every time, now, and he doesn’t fall again. 

It’s late afternoon by the time he slowly walks back up to the cottage, leans the bike gently against the shed. Without the distraction of riding, all his aches and pains hit him at once and he leans heavily against the doorway for a moment. It’s not just a physical ache – he feels sore down to his bones, and deeper, somehow. He’s exhausted, and suddenly embarrassed at the state he’s in. There’s something fragile and jagged inside him, like spun glass; if he thinks about it too long he might shatter. 

“Jon, is that you? You were gone a long time, I was starting to—” 

He can feel the moment Martin’s eyes land on him, the way he goes quiet, concern and uncertainty obvious in his voice. “Jon?” 

He wants to flinch away – he’s scrubbed raw, flayed open, his whole horrible aching heart on display — but he doesn’t, just stands there and sees Martin seeing him, sees the concern in his eyes and the way his mouth forms a silent little ‘oh’ as he takes in the mess Jon’s made of himself. 

He knows what he must look like, covered in scrapes and bruises, knees torn and muddied and eyes red-rimmed.

“Jon,” Martin starts, soft, careful, “are you alright?” 

“I— I’m—"

He can’t get the words out. Martin, patient as ever, doesn’t ask him more, just takes his hand and gently leads him to the bathroom. He guides Jon to sit on the edge of the tub and rummages through the cabinet for the first aid kit, and Jon thinks if Martin is any more careful with him he’ll weep. 

“I’ve learned how,” he says, to fill the silence. “To ride a bike, that is.” Martin turns to look at him, at that, so he tries to form his face into something like a smile. It doesn’t feel right – it’s out of place, somehow. Still. His voice is hoarse but mercifully steady as he continues. “Tim always said he was going to teach me.” 

Martin’s face does something funny, at that, an expression somewhere between sadness and horror and, finally, understanding flickering across his features. 

“Oh,” he says, a little helplessly, then, “oh, _Jon_ —" and then Jon is being pulled into a tight hug that he can’t bring himself to return.

“I never let him— I always—" he stutters, searching for an explanation Martin would never ask of him.

 _I think I loved him,_ he doesn’t say.

“I know,” Martin murmurs all the same, rubbing small circles on his back. He always has been good at picking up what Jon can’t find it in himself to say. “It’s alright. You never got a chance to mourn him, not properly, did you? You loved him, and you never got a chance to say goodbye. I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry we lost him. I’m sorry it went so wrong, between the two of you.”

Jon takes a hitching breath, buries his head in Martin’s shoulder, comes apart.

* * *

When he opens his eyes again Jon is in the small upstairs bedroom, under a quilt that smells of Martin. Late afternoon sun streams through the half-open curtains, light catching on the dust. 

He sits up slowly. There’s a mug of tea steaming on the table next to him; Martin’s work, no doubt. 

_“You’ll like it,”_ Tim had said once, during one of his many failed attempts to convince Jon to give cycling a try, _“once you get the hang of it. I promise. Once you feel the wind in your hair, against your face, the burn in your legs—like flying. You’ll love it.”_

His legs are tired. He can feel bruises forming on his shins, where they’d knocked into the pedals over and over again. His palms are starting to itch beneath the plasters, and he doesn’t relish the idea of getting up, the way his scabbed knees are sure to protest, but—

He can still feel the traces of wind whipping against his face. He wants to do it again. 

“Like flying,” he murmurs to himself, pressing his palms hard against his suddenly burning eyes. “You were right, you bastard. God, you were right.”

**Author's Note:**

> idk man i think this might be completely incoherent i just had to get it out of my system sorry!! 
> 
> anyways title is from 'you've got the map backwards, matt' by marietta which i do think is just. very timjon


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